A Fine Night for Thieving
by Laeral
Summary: A short story about a young guild thief


The transaction completed, a quarrel of mixed crossbow bolts costing just over fifty gold pieces, Darren slipped from the market floor and ducked into the adjoining taproom, casually striding up the bar. A fire blazed on the far side of the room, adding to the dim light thrown about by wall-mounted candelabras, the small pillar candles on the scattered tables, and the two oil lamps on either end of the bar, which were a fairly new addition. They were a new thing entirely, these lamps, owned mostly by the nobles. Darren could recognize stolen property when he saw it; the lamps were fenced. Sharply, he rapped his knuckles on the smooth bar top.  
From the shadows emerged a tall, thin fellow who flashed yellowed teeth in a grin. He was called Rat for reasons beyond his long bent nose and small dark eyes. In his younger days he worked as a sell sword, hired by the wealthiest of rogues, and he was a scrapper. He fought dirty, plain and simple.  
"What'll it be fer ya?" Rat asked in a rough baritone voice that people wouldn't expect to hear from the gaunt man.  
"Brandy," Darren replied as he passed double the price in gold across the bar. "The good stuff and not that weak horse piss."  
"The cheap stuff is fer those who cheat me with fake coins and fer the people who cross me," Rat retorted, pouring a cup half full.  
Darren reached for the cup and sniffed the contents, his gaze remaining on the barkeep as he sipped the rich liquid. His skeptical gaze softened and he flicked a silver coin into the air, unsurprised when Rat snatched the coin in midair. "You're a bad man with a good heart," said the young man, "or a good man with a bad heart. Either way."  
Rat snorted as Darren stepped away, returning to his duties.  
The warmth of the fire didn't quite reach the bar, but from a small table tucked in the far corner of the taproom the heat was pleasant. Sinking into a chair, Darren propped his feet upon a second seat and slouched, running a hand through his shaggy dark hair before taking a good swig of his drink. His mind wrapped around the activities that would commence the following night but the flicker of a shadow moving his way could not escape his dark eyes.  
From across the room came one of the tavern wenches, swaying seductively in the firelight with each step. She wasn't a new girl; she wasn't Darren's preferred either.  
"Hey there, handsome," she purred looking over his chiseled facial features. Likewise, he sized her up, taking in her round thin face framed by long brown hair that hung in many braids. Her pale green eyes danced with alluring flames and her small button nose was turned up, implying some noble blood in her family-she claimed her uncle was a duke. She was thin with just a hint of her hourglass shape showing despite the dark and revealing dress she wore.  
"What is it?" Darren inquired though he already knew the response.  
"You seem so lonely over here, all alone," she answered softly, licking her scarlet lips. "Perhaps you'd like some company for the night?"  
Darren laughed inwardly. He preferred the company of an intelligent and wild girl with golden-red hair and bright sky blue eyes when he wanted it at all. That one had enough meat on her bones for someone like Darren and she never seemed to run out of tricks. "You're not my type," he said smoothly.  
"Are you thinking some noblewoman will take a shine to you?" the wench asked. She pressed further, "Are you going to go break into the stables where some lord's daughter waits for the right rogue? Are those your type, thief?"  
Darren set his drink aside. "Thieving keeps my ribs from meeting in the middle, like spreading your legs for a guy who won't remember your name the morning after does for you."  
"My profession is more fun than sneaking around in the dark," she retorted.  
"A rather weak argument; some of your fellow wenches work street corners and dark alleys all the while avoiding the Sheriff and his men-or else they fuck them as a bribe."  
"I'll charge half my normal price."  
"Not interested."  
"Free?"  
Darren appeared tempted. She wasn't bad looking, but he wasn't that attracted to the "starving artist" type; this girl was of fragile build and he played rough. He finished his drink and rose. "You couldn't handle me," he replied walking past her.  
"Knave!" she uttered.  
"Bitch," he snarled, heading for the door.  
Two steps from the exit, a tough tenor voice called out to him. "Hullo, Darren!"  
The young man whirled around and spied a group of men clustered around a table near the bar. Each one had a tankard in hand and the speaker, an athletic-looking man with a scar on his forehead raised his to Darren.  
"Be a pal an' join us fer a drink; I'll buy yer tankard."  
A sly smile pulled at Darren's lips. He went to the table and took a chair, turning it backwards and seating himself. The man with the scar, called Pete, ordered ale from Rat and then staggered around the table to clap a huge hand on Darren's shoulder. Pete was a large man with a no- nonsense attitude unless he happened to be intoxicated. His light hair and hazel eyes, coupled with his rounded features, gave him a boyish appearance. The scar on his forehead said otherwise.  
"How's it all goin'? Thing's a'ight"" Pete slurred.  
"Why wouldn't it be?" Darren asked in reply.  
"'Cause you'se ain't been around lately-we thought you'd dropped off the face of the earth," a young thief, called Mutt, said.  
"I know," replied Darren, "I've been busy plannin' a job."  
"Ya missed some good times this past week!" a second thief remarked. "Pete's got himself a new bird that's a real winner; ripped the others t' shreds in the cock fights."  
Rat set the new tankard on the table before Darren and vanished. Darren sipped the tangy ale and grinned. "Things'll change when I return with Blumford's most prized dagger."  
Pete spat his mouthful of ale onto the ground in shock. "Ya mean that one he supposedly had all his family's gems cast into? That dagger?"  
"The same, if it exists."  
The crowd of thieves was wide-eyed and a few chins hung loose on jaw hinges.  
"Boys," Pete announced, raising his tankard, "this be to the lad gutsy enough-or stupid enough-to take on Lord Blumford's manor."  
All tankards were raised in toast and each man drank heartily.  
"I can't believe someone's going in there," a third thief said. "I heard he beefed up his security a while back; a few extra guards, new locks."  
"Minor setbacks," Darren replied.  
"Ya think ya can do this?" Pete asked.  
"What is there to make me think I can't?" Darren answered, drinking long from his tankard. "No one has broken into his mansion in around ten years. I'm counting on how these nobles grow secure with things after around five or so years of redundancy. I have no doubt in my mind that Blumford isn't even thinking of thieves breaking in these days."  
Pete guffawed and slapped Darren hard on the back, nearly causing him to choke on his ale. Darren spat the mouthful back into his tankard, swiftly sliding out of the chair and catching Pete's ankle with a sweep of his foot. The large man sprawled forward onto the chair, held in place by a foot between his shoulders.  
"Pete, don't do that again," Darren said flatly before disappearing out the door.  
* * *  
The following day was spent in preparation and, by the time most of the townsfolk were sitting down to an evening meal, Darren was in his chambers taking final inventory of his equipment. Beneath his dark cloak he wore the black attire he custom designed for pilfering. There were many pockets, both hidden and not, on the shirt, trousers, and vest. His belt was also of special design, holding two dagger sheaths on both hips and his quarrel of bolts while also having loose ties to attach small things.  
On his bed next to his daggers and many knives was his crossbow and bolts that were sharpened, blunt, or fixed with a whistling device. On a table near the bed was a length of rope, his weighted club that thieves alike called the "blackjack," his trusty lockpicks, and numerous tiny vials of water and a greenish gas. Carefully, he checked each individual item for flaws and once satisfied he packed the items in their appropriate places on his person and then departed from his apartment via the back stairs that would take him to the main floor of the guildhouse. Darren made his way to the taproom to get a quick meal before he "went to work." As he walked in, he spied his favorite girl serving tables and, with a frown, he pretended to have not noticed her, going straight to the bar.  
"Why you doin' it?" Rat inquired as Darren sat upon one of the barstools. "Why Blumford's manor? Is it because Lucius holds the eye of the Master?"  
Darren shook his head. "If I wanted to be the Guildmaster's successor I'd have dealt with Lucius a long time ago." He heard the soft padding of footsteps behind him. "No, this isn't for any sort of record as you may have heard; it's payment for a favor a friend o' mine's doin' for me. Now could you throw together a sandwich for me?"  
"Will do," Rat replied, disappearing behind a door that led to the taproom's kitchen.  
A female seated herself beside Darren. "You've been a stranger. My bed is colder these nights," she stated melodramatically. "Was it something I did?"  
"No, Sasha, I've been busy."  
"With what?" the red-blond tavern girl asked.  
"Planning my next job," Darren replied simply, "it's a big one and."  
"I think it's too big. You couldn't even find time for me. Not even one night this entire week," Sasha argued in a sweet voice that never failed to melt even a heart as hard as Darren's.  
"You make it sound like it's been months since the last time."  
"It feels like it."  
The thief grinned. "The Sheriff makes harder each day for an honest thief to make a livin'. I need the money this will bring."  
"I heard you tell Rat that it's payment for a favor," Sasha said bluntly.  
"There will be a large payout in the end."  
"How so?"  
"If it were safe to tell you, I would," Darren replied softly. "I would like to know, before I pull this off, if you've considered my offer?"  
"Oh yeah, I've considered it," Sasha answered. "I want to know why me? Out of all the girls in this tavern, or the female thieves in the guild for that matter, why me?"  
"Because the wildest among them is too tame and because I know that you'll be loyal despite your current occupation," Darren said.  
"Compared to some of the other girls I don't fit my occupation anymore," Sasha sneered. "Since that first night we shared, I have tricked everyone else I have supposedly bedded with-the alchemists know me well now."  
"Clever girl," Darren whispered, his eyes aglow for the reverence that only a fox or some other sly creature could have.  
"I also know that you've turned down the offers of every other girl in this tavern, even that new girl. I'm starting to believe that you are an honest thief," Sasha said.  
"I see word gets around," commented Darren.  
"They say the walls have ears," Sasha replied. "And of course you hear about it when the girls can't bed a man because he turns them down. Over in our wing of the guildhouse they can't keep their mouths shut. It makes for some interesting drama, provided it's not directed at you."  
"Sounds like personal experience."  
Sasha averted her eyes, grinning sheepishly. "Well, girls like me make good use of paint."  
He took her chin in a gentle grasp and turned her face, examining the area in question. Only now did he notice that the left side was swollen, though not by much, when compared to the right side. "The new girl?" he inquired.  
"Yeah, the damned bitch took a swing because I refused to divulge my secrets to her." Sasha's grin turned wolfish. "But I handled it like a big girl."  
"Chick fight; too bad it didn't happen where we could've watched, I could've used some spare change taking bets on you."  
She looked at him harshly and laughed. "I have me a lovely scar to show for it-or rather, it will be a lovely scar when it heals." She raised her skirt far above her thigh of her left leg, revealing four jagged cuts.  
"I've seen worse," he replied. "Hell, I've had worse."  
"I know; I've seen them remember?"  
He smiled. "Tell me how you handled it 'like a big girl.'"  
"Well, she tried a cheap sucker punch and since she missed the usual target of the eye, I showed her how it's done," she explained. "She got a few of my hairs and I gave her some nice scratches on her neck. She clawed my leg and drew blood so I decided enough was enough and she just so happened to run into my elbow and break her snobbish little nose."  
Darren burst with laughter. "I'll bet the wench don't look like the niece of some fat-ass duke anymore."  
"You got that right," agreed Sasha, casually examining her fingernails.  
Rat tossed a plate with a sandwich onto the bar before Darren. "Anything else?" he inquired.  
"A tankard to wash it down," Darren replied. When the tankard was filled and given to him, the young thief passed some coins across the bar with a nice tip included. Turning back to Sasha, he said, "So, my offer?"  
"What can you promise me if I accept?" Sasha pressed.  
Darren thought through his words carefully. He wanted to flat out tell her that she would be his empress because with his plans he would quickly gain control of most of the city's underworld, but such words could bring him folly if spoken. If his plans were to succeed, only certain pieces of information could be privy to anyone. "I can't say now entirely, but for now let's say that I promise you your very dreams."  
"That sounds nice, but I want another promise," she purred. "As soon as you return, I want you in my room and in my bed. I need to be.roughed up."  
"Kinky. I like it," answered Darren.  
She slipped away from the bar and as Darren ate his meal, he mentally went over his plan and his various backup plans. From the guild's informants, it was made known that the nightly watch was out in force due to some shindig at some noble's mansion on the north side of town. His personal informant had discovered that the pompous Lord Blumford had not increased security as Darren had planned. The last check at the window revealed overcast skies-shadow was a thief's best friend and it seemed as though there would be an ample amount. Tonight would indeed be a fine night for thieving.  
* * *  
The passing guard didn't even notice that he walked the entire perimeter of the building without encountering his partner. Darren waited until he was out of the guard's peripheral vision before creeping up behind. Blackjack in hand, he struck hard and fast, knocking the guard half into oblivion before his armored form slumped to the ground. Quickly he dragged the unconscious man into the shadows. The thief waited a few moments for good measure before scaling the rough hewn stones of the perimeter wall. He dropped inside Lord Blumford's grounds and darted into the cover of darkness, waiting for the next guard to make his rounds.  
Darren snuck past the guard once the man's back was between them and pressed himself flat against the wall beside a door. He heard nothing on the other side and carefully tried the latch.  
It was unlocked.  
"And now, the hunt begins," Darren whispered to no one in particular as he stepped inside and took account of the room in which he stood. He found himself in the kitchen and figured that he had found a servant's entrance. Dirty dishes were stacked beside a wash basin and the tin canisters on the nearby table were uncovered and had clearly been in use; the contents of one, obviously flour, dusted the tabletop. Across the room, a small bird was roasting on a spit over the fire and it looked as though it hadn't been turned a little while. The scent of the meat was tempting to the young thief's stomach and in passing one of the counters he snatched up a firm red apple and took a bite of the sweet fruit. "Not bad," he mumbled. "The bastard must have a contract with one of the local merchants-I've not seen ones this good all season."  
Darren made his way into an adjoining storage room, crouching silently behind a pair of barrels that stood almost as tall as he was. It was merely a hunch until two sets of footsteps outside the door confirmed his suspicions.  
"So I's said to 'im, 'Ye can shove off! If ye's ain't likin' me cookin', go an' fix it yer self!'"  
"Wouldn't he go and tell Lordy Blumford?"  
"This was earlier t'day. Lord Blumford's been gone since last eve and won't be back until after the noon hour so I can get to the lord before he does. I's ain't got no fear of that lout! Let 'im tell fer all I care."  
"I wish you the best then. I'm going off to bed before someone 'round here finds me more work t' do."  
"G'night."  
The door creaked open and the manservant, a scrawny wisp of a fellow wearing a uniform of Blumford's designated family colors, walked inside. He closed the door behind him and whistled as he went about taking a quick inventory. When his back was turned, Darren crept closer, armed with his blackjack.  
"Say good night," he said.  
"Good nigh.ooh!" repeated the servant, his words punctuated with a soft moan at the moment the heavy club connected with his skull.  
"Jackass," Darren laughed softly as he dragged the servant into the shadows.  
In minutes he was out in the hallway after having listened at the door for the signs of approaching footfalls. The hallway was not as well lit as it should've been; torches every twenty yards or so cast an alternating pattern of shadow and light. Visiting each bedchamber along the way, Darren increased his "savings account." He didn't hit real pay dirt until he reached the mansion's second floor, finding valuable trinkets in random places. The fool must trust his servants, Darren thought. If I were a servant here I'd snag a few of these little treasures and carve out a new life somewhere. Hell, I'd do just what I'm doin' now.robbing the bastard blind!  
Darren had been, illegally and unobtrusively, in the homes of enough nobles to decide that he actually liked the way these pompous members of the upper crust decorated their homes. The plush carpeting of the second floor aided his stealth and though it muffled the footsteps of the manor guards it did not silence the heavy walk they acquired from wearing armor. Up here, the lighting pattern was similar to that of the main floor. Contenting himself with a dark corner, Darren took from his pack a set of blueprints for the mansion, paying careful attention to the layout of the second floor. If he could locate a vault or treasure room he would be all set. Unfortunately, the blueprints showed that no such rooms had been incorporated in the original design.  
He cursed harshly under his breath and then decided to look on the brighter side-as of now he had to check every room on the floor, which meant more loot.  
Cloaked in shadow, Darren gripped the latch of the nearest door and found it stiff. He examined the lock with a careful eye and took his triangle-toothed lockpick from its place on his belt. Carefully, the thief picked the lock and opened the door.  
A guard stood half asleep in the middle of the room. His back was to the thief and he seemed to have not heard the door open behind him. Darren considered blackjacking the guard and then remembered his trip to the alchemist's. He fitted a blunt bolt with a vial of the greenish gas and then armed his crossbow. Locked and loaded, he aimed for the guard's helmet and took the shot.  
The thin glass vial shattered on impact, rather silently for breaking glass, and a cloud of gas swirled about the guard's head. He choked, wheezed, and then dropped unconscious or dead. Either way, the threat was neutralized and Darren entered the room, the mansion's library, and snatched anything that would fetch him decent coin. He knew a few people who would pay well for some of these old books of history that nobles kept around to make them appear half-intelligent.  
Five rooms and one hallway later, Darren encountered the master bedchamber. A guard was posted at the door and a second man walked a course that took him past the room. When this mobile guard turned the corner, moving away from Darren, the thief tailed him, darting across the lit intersection. Flitting shadow to shadow he waited until the guard rounded a second corner before closing in for attack. Taking two bolts in hand, he fitted the whistling bolt into his crossbow, knowing he needed a distraction to take advantage of the best chink in the armor the guards wore-a gap between helmet and breastplate would form and expose the neck if the guard dropped his chin to, say, look at the floor.  
Darren fired and the bolt struck the carpeting and skidded down the hall, whistling softly as so long as air rushed over the holes of the hollow bolt. When the guard looked down to investigate, Darren fired the sharp bolt he had already armed himself with. The bolt pierced flesh and cartilage and severed the guard's spinal cord.  
Darren stepped over the corpse and made use of the nearest shadows to retrace his steps back to the intersection. He didn't cross, however, noticing that the guard posted at the chamber door glanced in the opposing direction, obviously aware of the time it took the mobile guard to make a round.  
Son of a bitch, the thief thought, there's a smart one in the bunch.  
The guard did not ignore the absence of his partner as Darren would've like. Instead, the man abandoned post to search for the missing guard, backtracking along the guard's course. That man was dangerous; he knew something wasn't right.  
Darren turned in the direction he just came from and raced down the hall, taking refuge in a wash of darkness not far from the corpse. The second guard was slow in coming, watching for the unusual. There in plain sight was the corpse of his partner and his eyes grew dim with anger.  
"Come out, you sorry bastard! I dare ya!" he commanded, searching the shadows.  
An alert guard was unpredictable. Darren had no choice but to pick a spot, take aim, and shoot. Mechanically, he raised the crossbow and went for the throat.  
The guard turned and the bolt glanced off the armor on his shoulder.  
He spun about and lined himself with the bolt's intended flight path.  
"I'm gonna cut your heart out and feed it to me dogs!" the guard growled, charging toward the thief he could barely see in the shadows.  
Darren drew both of his daggers and stood to face the guard. He ducked under the guard's high swing and lunged in, taking his shoulder to the guard's kneecaps. The armor plating was less than forgiving on his shoulder, but he managed to tackle the guard and drive a dagger into the back of the guard's knee, between the upper and lower leg plates. Kicking frantically, the guard attempted to topple the thief. Darren pulled the dagger from the guard and thrust it into the back of his other knee. The guard's howl was silenced when Darren's second dagger found a home in his throat.  
Abandoning his daggers, for he had other knives with him and could easily afford new ones, Darren approached the master bedchamber door and knelt to inspect the locking mechanism. This lock was of better quality, requiring both his triangle-toothed and his square-toothed lockpicks in alternating succession to gain entry. Once inside, he was a kid in a candy shop.  
And there in a locked display case on a shelf above the noble's bed was the jeweled dagger. He could hardly believe the lack of security around the box. The lock was smaller than any lockpicks Darren had ever seen but the metal was thin so to avoid distorting the beauty of the glass box. Carefully, Darren wedged his thinnest knife blade in-between the lid and the case at the lock and he hammered his fist down on the knife's handle.  
The lock held.  
Puzzled, Darren repeated the action and the lock remained intact but his knife bent.  
"What sort of metallurgy is this?" Darren hissed. "So small and so thin, yet so tough; damn bastard metallurgists!"  
He took his distorted knife from the box and took hold of his blackjack. Swinging with all his strength, he shielded his face as the club contacted the glass, scattering shards in all directions. Triumphant, he secured the jeweled dagger in one of his empty sheaths.  
He made two steps toward the door when a horn sounded from inside the mansion. The guard he skewered must not have died immediately.  
"Shit!" Darren cursed, loading a blunt bolt affixed with a vial of water into his crossbow. He leaned out into the hallway and fired at a torch, dousing the light. This he did twice more, plunging the great hallway into darkness, before he was satisfied enough to emerge from the bedchamber. Padding along on the carpets, he kept low and more alert than ever. He could hear footsteps racing up the seemingly-more-distant-than- they-were stairs.  
The door at the end of the hall flew open.  
With a rasp and a gurgling sound, the guard toppled over, a crossbow bolt protruding from his throat. When silence settled, Darren moved on.  
Hopefully the kitchen was still an option of escape.  
Down the stairs, around the corner, douse the torch-he reached for the door handle that would take him to the hall that led to the kitchen and found it locked.  
Oh for the love of-he thought as he worked his "magic" on the lock.  
He navigated the dark stretch beyond and came to the kitchen door. Two guards flanked it. Darren fitted a bolt with a gas vial and aimed for the door between their head. The gas dispersed but neither guard fell.  
"Do ya smell that?" one guard asked the other.  
"Aye-if I didn't know better, I'd think that Lady Blumford was tryin' t' cook again!"  
"Yeah, it kinda smells like that," chuckled the first, "but keep yer eyes peeled; I thought I heard somethin' break a second ago."  
This time, Darren placed a sharp bolt in the notch. The guard on the right seemed bigger, but after the bolt punched into his eye, he crumpled into a withering mass of armor. The left guard, a scraggly boy who probably couldn't even shaving once a week yet, raised his sword and plunged blindly into the shadows-past Darren.  
The thief swept his leg out and tripped the foolish guard, then clubbed him into oblivion with a strike that crushed bone.  
"Here! The thief's here!" the half-blind guard howled.  
"It's not as fun if you tell them where I am," Darren chided. His knife flashed and slit the guard's throat.  
Then the thief threw the door, raced through the kitchen, and ducked outside, making a bee-line for the wall. He scaled the rough rocks and dropped over the edge, disappearing into the urban scene of the city.  
* * *  
Out on the streets, Darren moved briskly down side streets and alleys counting on the ladies of the night to occupy the Sheriff's men until he made it to the back entrance of the guildhouse. There, he flashed the hand sign to the bouncer at the door and was admitted into the building.  
"Did ye get the dagger?"  
Darren turned to the man and shook his head. "It's a fabled thing," he lied. "It doesn't exist."  
"Yer shittin' me?"  
"I wish I were," Darren sighed. "So many tales, so many hopes, all dashed to pieces."  
"You did get some of Blumford's jewels though, right?"  
"That I did," Darren replied.  
"Good then; make them nobles know some fear. They get too comfy in their high an' mighty lifestyles fer their own good."  
"That they do," agreed Darren. "Do me a favor and tell the guys that the dagger is a hoax. The security at Blumford's looks lax, but on the inside it's tight. I think he started the rumor a jeweled dagger to attract thieves-perhaps he's on the Sheriff's payroll."  
"Makes sense; I'll let 'em all know."  
"You're a pal," Darren replied, heading up the spiral staircase that would take him to the ladies' wing of the building.  
Tonight had been a fine night for thieving indeed. 


End file.
